


Bedroom Hymns

by glowstick_of_destiny



Series: Seven Devils [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:19:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3101690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowstick_of_destiny/pseuds/glowstick_of_destiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim so close he can feel his breath on his face, coming fast. Expression almost a snarl, but pupils dilated. None of which was not part of the plan. Certainly the plan was to let Jim call the shots, because he's already uncomfortable with any mob association and Oswald needs this to work.  Getting grabbed by his lapels, getting thrown into walls he can deal with. He's had worse. The fatal flaw in his plan is that it did not account for human error when the error is his, and close proximity to Jim Gordon seems to unerringly result in severely impaired judgment on his part. "You could, you know." Now would be a great time for him to stop talking.  The best, probably. "Could what?"  He doesn’t.  "Have me against this wall until I can no longer stand. If you wanted to.”</p>
<p>A sort-of sequel to Heartlines (there is some timeline overlap) told from Oswald's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedroom Hymns

**Author's Note:**

> Fairly equal parts angst, fluff, and sex.

Jim's not there yet. For most people, that would be a sign that he was trying to put off their afternoon appointment in the back room of a French restaurant "to meet to talk about some things." In Jim's case, however, it's more likely that he's chasing a clue or a murderer across the rooftops while being shot at, because goodness knows Gotham's recent crime wave didn't break for lunch. Either way, the wait is doing absolutely nothing for Oswald's nerves. 

As a general rule, Oswald considers his impeccable memory and attention to detail to be assets. Both have saved his life before. Now, however, he wishes for nothing more than a dull, ordinary, _quiet_ mind. One that wouldn't be hell-bent on replaying everything that has happened between Jim and himself over and over again, as if it might illuminate what will happen when the man arrives. 

He knows it won't, knows even encyclopedic memories are treacherous things, subject to bias, but spinning stories like truth, studded with emotions like minefields. Knows going over the empire's accounts would be a far better use of his time while he waits. And yet. Perhaps just once more before he tends to the books. 

Jim so close he can feel his breath on his face, coming fast. Expression almost a snarl, but pupils dilated. None of which was not part of the plan. Certainly the plan was to let Jim call the shots, because he's already uncomfortable with any mob association and Oswald needs this to work. Getting grabbed by his lapels, getting thrown into walls he can deal with. He's had worse. The fatal flaw in his plan is that it did not account for human error when the error is his, and close proximity to Jim Gordon seems to unerringly result in severely impaired judgment on his part. "You could, you know." Now would be a great time for him to stop talking. The best, probably. "Could what?" He doesn’t. "Have me against this wall until I can no longer stand. If you wanted to. Or you could keep scowling and throwing me around because you want to, but you don't think you can, or should. Your call." "That's not fucking funny, Cobblepot." "I'm not fucking joking, Detective." 

Jim's name popping up on his caller ID. Which shouldn't make him as happy as it does. Unless he’s getting _attached_. He's not going to get attached. The last thing he needs right now is an emotional setback when this blows up in his face, or worse, another liability if it doesn't. He hits “ignore.” After all, he is a very busy, very important man these days. No one need know that his first impulse is to drop everything and take the call. 

Jim nodding that that he'll use the caution words and the safe word if he needs to. "I'm afraid I need verbal conformation." "Yes." "Yes what?" "Yes, _sir_." "Very good. On your knees, Detective." Biting his tongue, hard, and then when that fails, switching among German, Russian, Polish. Trying to stop himself from saying something unspeakably stupid. Like Jim's name, for example. He curses himself as soon as the words slip from his mouth and drags his nails down the back of Jim's scalp, hard, hoping that's a sufficient distraction. 

Jim's face when he sees the champagne. Shaking his head, but a huge grin breaking across his face at the same time. Hanging up his jacket, carefully not mentioning that the promotion had just as much to do with the fact that Don Falcone does not want Jim poking around Arkham as with the recent string of arrests Jim led. 

Jim not in his life at all for 17 days, five hours, and 18 minutes. He imagines this is what trying to quit smoking feels like. But he's been laying plans and preparations for this for six months and he'll be damned if he lets an ill-advised infatuation lay them to waste. He doesn't need any distractions right now. And things would sudden get very, very complicated if Jim were implicated as being involved in these plans. So he says he needs to visit an ailing aunt, the first layer of a lie. Spends the time at his summer home with a very nice escort who parks across the street and leaves her waiting at the front door for just enough for the men watching the house to see he's asked her to wear a GCPD uniform. Enough time to snap pictures of a secret dirty enough that no will dig further. Especially when she doesn't leave until 17 days later. After all, she's been very busy shopping online with his credit card while he waits for a call from Liza to say the deed is done. 

Jim materializing on the steps of the summer home Oswald is certain he never mentioned to him, sporting a black eye and stormy expression. Shoves him into a wall like the second time they met. Which is almost funny, because the next thing he says is, "I thought you were dead." And then Jim kisses him quite nearly senseless. His last shred of higher cognitive functioning is spent pulling him inside, as lying low works best when one isn't caught necking outside one's house on a residential street. After the first time they actually fuck in a bed, like he supposes normal people do, he asks after Jim's eye. "Occupational hazard. In this case, Harvey. I probably deserved it, though. It's a long story." 

Jim outside his apartment a few days later with a bottle of champagne that looks like it's above his pay grade. "What's the occasion?" "You survived ousting Maroni." "I thought that was what we celebrated last time." "No, you didn't tell me about the Maroni part until after you handcuffed me and fucked me into the headboard. That definitely doesn't count." 

Jim lying in his bed a week later as they catch their breath. No pillow talk, of course, no touching. Now Jim's standing up to retrieve his clothing. Oswald catches his elbow. "It's my birthday." "Well, shit. You should've told me. I'll get you something tomorrow, yeah? What do you want?" "Stay. Please." "That'll save me the drive. Thanks. Didn't answer my question, though." "That's all I want." 

Jim nowhere to be found the next morning. Too much, too fast. He should have steeled himself against the effects of post-coital oxytocin and the way it lent itself to bouts of honesty. A knock at the door. Jim walks in in boxers and an army t-shirt, tea-service tray laden with pancakes, bacon, eggs, waffles. "I didn't know what you liked, so I sort of made everything." "You shouldn't have." He's sure he's grinning like a complete moron. "I can't do something nice for my friend's birthday?" 

Jim's cell phone vibrating on the end table, sounding like an earthquake. It might as well be; the caller idea reads "Barbara Gordon." Jim's been up for at least 48 hours on a case. Which is to say he's presently sleeping like the dead. It would be so easy reach over and delete the call, act like nothing ever happened. He nudges Jim awake. "You just missed a call. I'm guessing it's important if they're calling at three in the morning." "Christ, sorry." He rubs his eyes, picks up the phone, looks stricken. "I'm gonna head downstairs and call them back, ok? Don't want to keep you up." As if Oswald has any chance of getting back to sleep now. 

Jim's side of the bed empty when he wakes up. He doesn't remember falling asleep. Or when his mind decided that one side of the bed belonged to Jim. There's a note. Which is some variety of promising, because Oswald's fairly certain that if Jim's going to put an end to whatever it is they have been doing, his code of honor would mandate that he do so in person. "Early work day. Let's meet to talk about things over lunch." 

Jim nearly gives him a heart attack when he slides back the partition to the private room in the back of the restaurant. His heart feels like it's like to beat out of his chest, but these days, he's nothing if not an excellent actor. He smiles. "Jim. Have a seat. What's on your mind?" Jim does sit, but he looks exceedingly unhappy about having to do so. Restless, agitated. Unable to sit still. 

"Barbara called last night." 

"Is she all right?" 

"Yeah. No. I mean, she's safe. That's not why she called." 

Oswald waits. Jim doesn't continue. Oh, for fuck's sake. Jim would be one to try to let him down easily, to drag the whole thing by choosing his words carefully when it would be far kinder to get it over with bluntly, quickly. Oswald's come to learn that waiting for a blow, the anticipation, is far worse than the actual impact. 

"I'm glad to hear that she's not in danger. But seeing as you took a call you didn't want me to hear, never came back to bed, and then decided we should meet in a restaurant when you and I have never had occasion to meet in a public place during daylight before, I take it there's something else you wanted to tell me?" 

"Christ, Oswald. Could you not? Just once? I'm trying to be straightforward and honest here, and it isn't fucking easy. I don't need you going all Sherlock Holmes on me right now, ok?" 

"And I don't need to be mollycoddled. Whatever you have to say to me, spit it out. I can take it." 

"Barbara wants me back." He pauses, scans Oswald's face like it's a crime scene, searching for any telltale emotions. Oswald makes sure he can't find what he's looking for. 

"She said that she'd had enough distance, more than enough time to sort things out. That she's broken things off with Renee. That she misses me like crazy, wishes she never left, but that maybe she needed to to see why she had. What we had. Before everything got fucked up. Before I met you.” 

Oswald’s fairly certain he’s stopped breathing. But Jim pushes on. "I felt like a piece of shit leaving last night. But I had to get out, had to move. Couldn't fucking think straight. Took my gun and wandered around Gotham all night. Broke up a few drug busts and fist fights. Nearly got my head kicked in. It helped, though. So I came back and left that note, and now here we are.” 

"Whatever we've been doing for the past few months-- whatever this is-- it has to end. Because--" 

"Because you still love Barbara." 

"No! I mean, I do still care for her. I'd die before I'd let anyone lay a finger on her. But I-- Christ, I had this all planned out, and now it's coming out all wrong. I think I might be in love with you." 

"I'm afraid I'm a bit confused." 

"Ok, I don't think I might be. I am. In love with you, god help me." 

"So you're leaving? Perhaps I'm missing something, but I don't follow." 

"No. I don't mean-- I'm not going back to Barbara. I still care about her, but it's not anything romantic. We burned too many bridges for that to work, and should probably be all torn up about that, because she's a good woman. But I'm not, not really. Not anymore. 

"Whatever we've been doing, though, I can't keep that up, either. I know this started as a way to let off steam. But it's more than that for me now, and it's killing me. I can't keep fucking you and pretending it doesn't mean anything. Can't hold you and pretend my world wouldn't fall apart if you got up and didn't come back. I know you probably don't feel the same way, though, and god, even if you did, no one would say we had a shot in hell of making something serious work. A mob boss and a cop? But I thought you deserved to know why I was leaving. I owe you that much." 

"You're not even going to try?" 

"What?" 

"You've spent the last nine months trying to save a city that has been trying to kill you since you got your GCPD badge. While swinging your moral compass like Excalibur, completely disregarding the social isolation and mortal peril resulting from that course of action, and only letting attempts to dissuade you feed your fervor for the mission. I was under the impression that you took slim odds for success like a challenge and attempts to dissuade you from chasing them as a personal affront to your manhood. But if I've heard correctly, in this instance, even if I felt the same way, you think the best course of action would be to give up because the odds would not be in our favor?" 

"Is this you saying that you feel the same way?" 

"You know, for one of Gotham's best detectives, you can be incredibly dense sometimes." 

"I think I need to hear it." 

"You are a complete moron, a quality that is apparent during incidents of alarming frequency. To be quite frank, I don't know how you've survived to this age." 

Jim's tries to school his too-large grin into a more surly expression. He fails spectacularly. "You're a complete bastard sometimes, you know that?" 

"So are you. And despite that, I have been in love with you for more of those past nine months than I would care to admit, and I plan to stay by your side if it kills me. Which, statistically speaking, has a fairly good chance of actually happening sometime in the not-so-distant future. Happy now?" 

"Very." 

"How would you feel about taking the afternoon off? It seems we have quite a bit of lost time to make up for. And I have it on good authority that there won't be any major criminal activity of the homicide variety this afternoon, because any perpetrators would have to answer to me.” 

"Is that so?" 

"Let me make a call, and it will be." 

"I shouldn't." 

"Surely your partner can hold down the fort for one afternoon if his only duties will consist of paperwork. I'm sure you would do the same for him, if your roles were reversed." 

"Oswald." 

"It could save countless lives." 

" _Oswald_." 

"One or both of us could be dead if we wait until tomorrow to celebrate." 

"God, you fight dirty." 

"Is that a yes?" 

“You’re incorrigible.” 

“You like it.” 

Jim leans across the table to kiss him, his hand moving to twine in Oswald’s hair. He tugs, a little harder than is polite, pulling Oswald’s head back to bare his neck, and then kissing his way down to where his shirt collar meets skin. 

Jim’s smirking when he breaks away, taking in Oswald’s swollen lips, his irregular breathing. “You’re not the only one who can be persuasive. Don’t you forget it.” 

Jim stands and Oswald pushes his chair away from the table and makes to follow suite, but Jim stops him with a hand on his chest. “Don’t you have a phone call to make first?” 

Oswald sighs, sits back down. “So I do.” 

Jim takes advantage of the new position to straddle his hips, leans closer to make sure his lips are right next to Oswald’s ear when he speaks. “I’ll meet you at your summer house. But don't take too long, or I might have to start without you. _Paramour_.” 

A quick kiss on Oswald’s cheek, and he’s gone. 

Oswald’s fairly certain that he’s never conducted a faster business call in his life. 


End file.
